His Father's Son
by Sapphire at Dawn
Summary: He has her eyes, precisley her eyes...' The thoughts of Severus Snape on Harry Potter's first day at Hogwarts.
1. Chapter 1

_**A little update on this story. I was just going to add this onto the main body, but it got too long and so I thought it might as well go in a chapter on it's own. Thanks for reading, I hope you like the editing I've done on the second chapter.  
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It was a quiet night. No rain lashed at the widows, no wind howled ferociously through the trees. It was quite unlike the night, over a year ago, on which Snape had relayed the prophecy foretelling the Dark Lord's doom. It was strange that this calm and peaceful night should see the end of the Dark Lord's, a wizard who had caused a whirlwind of pain and terror among so many.

Severus Snape paced anxiously up and down in the small, book lined sitting room of his house. In the background a kettle whistled desperately, but Snape paid it no attention. He merely continued his pacing. Up and down, pausing only to turn at each end of the room. Suddenly, there came a great banging from the door that led to the cobbled street outside; someone was banging their fists hard upon it.

He strode to the door and threw it open, glaring at the person stood on the otherside for daring to interrupt his solitary progress up and down the room. Almost at once, a cloaked figure slipped inside, not waiting for an invitation. Snape turned to his guest, a strange look upon his face, as the man threw back his hood to reveal a shaggy mass of mud coloured hair and a dark, unpleasant face.

'Rosier,' Snape greeted the man coolly, not wanting to his his distaste at being disturbed. 'To what do I owe the pleasure?'

His voice was steady, though judging by his earlier agitated countenance, this was achieved with some difficulty.

'The Dark Lord has left,' Rosier informed him shortly, his eyes sweeping the room with apparent distaste. 'I thought you might like to know.'

Snape gestured for him to take a seat on one of the old sofas, sinking into an armchair as he did so. The kettle had stopped whistling now, perhaps it had given up, and Snape did not offer his guest any refreshment. He merely watched Rosier perch himself gingerly on the edge of his seat, as if he did not want to come into too close contact with his surroundings.

'You thought I might like to know that the Dark Lord has gone to kill the Potters?' Snape asked with a sneer. 'Why would I want to know when he sets out on one of his kills?'

Rosier's eyes snapped sharply back onto Snape's face.

'I thought that seeing as you were the one who brought this plan about, you might want to know when it is being executed.' he replied defensively.

'Did the Dark Lord send you?' Snape asked suspiciously, tilting his head to one side.

'No,' Rosier said, looking uncomfortable as he shifted on the sofa. 'I was merely acting on my own intuition.'

'I see,' Snape said softly, his voice laced with danger. 'Is it also of your own intuition that you come here to find out more about what I am up to?'

Rosier took a while to answer, evidently trying to decide if the truth was better than a lie.

'Yes,' he conceded finally. 'Well, you don't exactly behave in a way that clears you from suspicion, Snape! Your absences from the circle have been noticeable of late. I am not the only one who begins to question your whereabouts.'

'Just because I am not there does not mean I do not still carry out the Dark Lord's wishes, Rosier.'

'What is you mission then,' Rosier asked, a hopeful look crossing his face. 'It would put our minds at rest.'

Snape caught the tone of Rosier's voice, and his the look on his face turned into a haughty sneer.

'That is between myself and the Dark Lord,' Snape replied looking away from Rosier for the first time. 'It is not my problem if he does not choose to share certain information with you.'

Rosier's cheeks coloured in anger.

'How dare you suggest –'he spat, but before he could continue, Snape held up a had to silence him.

'It is top secret,' Snape explained. 'I cannot share it with anyone except the Dark Lord. If you wish to discuss it, I suggest you take it up with him.'

Snape rose from his seat, closing the conversation.

'Oh, I will, Snape. I can assure you of that,' Rosier's tone was dangerous now, and his cheeks remained coloured as if to show that he was not happy with being snubbed like this.

Snape opened the door again as Rosier drew up the hood of his lack cloak, turning his back to Snape and refusing to make eye contact.

'Goodnight, Evan,' Snape said as Rosier stepped out into the silent night.

Rosier merely grunted as he stepped over the threshold and walked away without as much as glancing back.

Snape slammed the door shut, finally letting his calm mask drop. In Rosier's absence, he resumed his pacing, first checking the clock placed on a book free shelf. Eight 'o' clock.

Despite what he might have said otherwise, Snape was glad of the news that Rosier had brought him. It meant that he knew roughly what was happening. He closed his eyes, his heart thumping loudly in his ears and his mind wandered to Lily. Was she safe? Was the Dark Lord this very moment sparing her life? Or was she still blissfully unaware of the fate assigned to her loved ones? He dared not think of the other option, could not even bring himself to think of the word. Surely the Dark Lord would spare her as he had asked. He was, after all, the reason that he knew of this prophecy and the reason that there would be no enemies standing in his way.

He looked at the clock again. Quarter past eight. He longed for the burn in his arm that would summon him to the Dark Lord's side so he could know what had happened. He did not waste any thought feeling sadness for the boy or the father; it was not they he loved, in fact it was quite the opposite. There was no one he hated more than James Potter.

It happened suddenly. He had just turned away from the shelf with the clock to continue his pacing ritual when he felt his forearm explode with pain. It was almost unbearable. He collapsed to the floor with a piercing scream and tried to clutch at his arm, but the Mark was so hot his hand was scalded. He felt his blood boil and his skin scorch as flames shot up and down his arm, setting fire to his nerves and searing his flesh.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the pain subsided, and Snape's mind cleared. Shaking, he turned his arm over to look at his Mark and gasped at what he saw. The skull and it's snake that had been as clear as fresh ink on parchment only moments ago had faded to a pale grey, the outlines barely visible on his pasty skin. What did this mean? What had happened? He was sure that the others had felt the anguish that he had, and experienced the same agony. They would be meeting, right now at the Headquarters, but Snape had something more important to do, someone more important to think of. His heart bounding in fear for her, he turned on the spot and Disapparated.

He reappeared again in front of towering stone gates, the turrets and spires of a mighty castle just viable over the top of the wall. He waved his wand and sent his Patronus bounding through and towards the castle. Moments later, the gates opened and Snape hurried through, dashing up to the castle, through the Entrance Hall and up the marble stairs, working his way through the corridors, ignoring the people he met, until he came to the already revolving statue waiting to take him up to Dumbledore's office.

He burst into the room to find Dumbledore standing at the window, staring out at the silent, pitch black grounds, an unreadable look on his face.

'What's happened, Dumbledore?' Snape voice shook as he spoke.

Slowly, the old wizard turned to face him.

'You had better sit, Severus.'

Breathing deeply to try to calm himself, Snape sank into the chair Dumbledore had indicated, every nerve in his body quivering in both feverent hope and terrible fear.

'Dumbledore, what is going on?' he repeated. 'I felt the Mark burn. What has happened?'

'It would seem,' Dumbledore said slowly. 'That Voldemort has gone.'

'Gone?' echoed Snape. 'What do you mean gone? Is he dead? What about Lily, is she-'

Dumbledore held up a long slender hand to silence him.

'Yes, it would appear he is dead.'

'What about Lily?' Snape cried, raking Dumbledore's face for any signs that would contradict what his body language was telling him.

'I am so sorry, Severus.'

Snape sank back into the chair in horror at what Dumbledore's words meant. Surely, surely he was wrong.

'She did not survive.'


	2. Chapter 2

**_This is the original story. I wanted to submit it as a contest piece on another forum, but it needed like 1,500 more words, so I thought I might as well update it on here. Hope you like the new paragraphs I've put in. Thanks for reading, please review =)_**

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Severus Snape took his place at the High Table for the start of term feast, just as he did every year, wearing the same black robes as he usually did, the same hat, the same unpleasant look upon his face. However, despite his outer coolness, despite the calm, collected fixed stare, inside he was a mess. He despised himself for this; anyone who allowed their emotions to overcome them was weak and foolish in his opinion.

His black eyes were staring, like everyone else's in the Great Hall, upon a small wooden door that led to a small ante-chamber, where the terrified first years would be waiting to be led out and sorted. However, he knew that he had a very different reason to be staring at the door than the other teachers and students.

Behind that door, concealed behind a bit of wood and stone was the son of Lily Evans the only child of the woman he had loved since he was a small boy. He had never seen this child, he did not know what he looked like, but Snape could still picture clearly, even after all these years, his mother's beautiful face. Her almond shaped green eyes still shone clearly in his mind's eye, surrounded by her pale skin and thick chestnut locks.

With a creak of wood, the doors of the anti-chamber swung open and Professor McGonagall swept in, followed by a gaggle of trembling eleven year olds. Snape's eyes swept the group, trying to pick out one face from the mass. Which boy was it? He did not know what he was looking for. Did he have his mother's red hair and green eyes, or did he not look like her at all? Did he have the dark hair and eyes of his father? As he thought of James Potter, Snape wondered if he actually wanted to see the boy at all. Would this Harry taint his memories of Lily by reminding him of the man he had hated so passionately and for so many reasons? He snapped his eyes away from the group and stared down at the solid wooden table, his mind in turmoil. He would have to know the boy at some point.

Snape paid no attention to the names being called by the deputy head. Maybe if he tuned out the words, he wouldn't hear the name and it would put off the moment that he would have to look at the boy. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to see vestiges of Lily in someone else's face, he didn't know if he could cope, if it wouldn't bring back the old grief and pain he felt, drag it up into his conscience again.

Suddenly, he was jerked back to harsh reality as Professor McGonagall's voice cut through him like a whiplash.

'Longbottom, Neville,' she called, reading the Name from the scroll in her hands.

Longbottom.

Snape felt like his stomach had been plunged unsparingly into the freezing lake beyond the walls of the castle as the boy's Name was called. The shock of the unexpected had caused him to jerk suddenly in his seat, causing several of his colleagues to shoot him nervous looks of concern. He pointedly ignored them, refusing to meet their eyes ad instead stared at the podgy, round faced boy who was currently extracting himself from among the thicket of students.

He did not know how to feel. He had forgotten, completely forgotten in his torment that this Boy would also be starting school this year. This Boy who should have been the one marked By the Dark Lord as his equal, as his enemy. This Boy should e the one who was parentless and alone, or else dead in the Dark Lord's stead. _His_ father should have been the one who died to defend him; it should have been _his _mother who was the one forced to give up her life for her son. Not her. Not Lily. It should have never been her. She didn't deserve to die like that; she should have gone on, lived forever. But she hadn't. She was dead; asleep forever beneath a blanket of earth, asleep beside her husband. Briefly, she flitted through his mind, her red hair dancing in the breeze. This was how she would remain, forever young, unlike he, who would age and crumple with mortality and time. A thought entered his head, one that he had not dared to think of for many years. A thought in which she was alive, maddened with grief for her husband ad child, a thought in which she would have fled to his arms for comfort, and he would console her like a lover.

No. he banished the thought before it even had time to formulate properly. Wishes like that would ring him to nowhere but despair. He had forsaken that hope a long time ago, and it would not haut him now.

In determination, he turned his mid back towards the lumpy boy who was still sitting o the stool, hat falling about his eyes. He peered at him with an almost sickening curiosity, the kind of look that one wears when examining a wart o ones finger. He was nervous, Snape could tell, as first years always were, but there was something about this boy's air that made Snape loath him; he seemed pathetic, the fact that he was spending so much time sat foolishly o the stool confirmed that. He felt that he would dislike the boy even if he did not know about the boy's lucky escape.

When the hat announced him as Gryffindor ad Neville jogged off still wearing the hat, Snape was among one of those who laughed at the silliness of the situation, although the good humour preset in other chuckles was assent. Instead, it was replaced y a cruel, side laugh designed to sting ad hurt. Snape would not let the boy forget what he himself had lost.

In disgust, he turned away from the celebrating Gryffindor's and concentrated once more o the dwindling cluster of children at the foot of the platform on which the staff table stood. Remembering who was among them, he jerked his head away ad looked down at the tale. Once again, Minerva's voice rang out across the hall.

'Potter, Harry!'

Despite himself, his eyes jumped up from where they were boring into the knotted wood of the table, and he tingled in anticipation as they strained towards the small groups just meters away from him, where he knew the boy would be. For the second time, Lily danced tantalisingly through his head. This was the boy who should be his son, the son he should have had. Not the son of _that_ Potter.

A small boy stepped forward, trembling from head to foot. Snape felt all the muscles in his entire body clench tight, and his fists balled tightly in his lap. He was oblivious to the fact his log nails were cutting into the palm of his hands; he could not feel the pain. He leaned forward slightly so that he could get a better view, blind to the fact that almost everybody else at the Staff tale was doing so. He could only see the back of the boy's head, but that told him everything. The jet black messy hair stood out like a beacon and everything In Snape's being ached to see how it stuck up in every direction, ruffled ad windblown, as if he had just dismounted from a broomstick. It was hair that Snape recognised painfully well. It was _His _hair.

He forced himself to look away from the boy as he sat on the stool, he felt like he was boiling over in anger, in hatred. Everything James Potter had ever done to him came flooding ack. All the tormenting and laughing, the malicious hexes and ruthless name calling. And then, then there was the other effects of James Potter. The way he had caused him to insult Lily I that despicable way, the way he had caused her hatred, The way he had been there, the charming Knight, to pick up the pieces and steal his precious gem away from him forever.

Out of the corner of his eye Snape saw Dumbledore turn slightly to look at him, but he blanked him out, refusing to meet his gaze. He knew what the Headmaster was thinking ad did not want to see the satisfaction or even comfort and sympathy in his eyes.

Dimly, he heard a cheer and looked up ever so slightly to see the Gryffindor's jumping and applauding. Of course, he thought with a seer, he _would_ be in that house. They had both been Gryffindor's, he recalled with a pang. They had both upheld the hour of that house I the manner of their deaths. The hour ad bravery required to give one's life for ones so and the willingness to do so. As he regarded the clapping students he felt as if he had ever hated that house more; it had cost her her life.

Snape forced himself to blank out the rest of the sorting. Fists still clenched under the tale, he determinedly stopped his mid from wandering into the dark corner where she dwelt. Soon, the feast was starting and he was recovering himself somewhat, all the time careful not to let his eyes stray towards the table where both boys sat.

It was halfway through the feast when Snape accidentally glanced in the Harry's direction. One of the Weasley twins had caught his eye as he flung a boiled carrot at his older brother across the table, ad so he found himself looking towards the Gryffindor table where Harry, the last living, breathing relic of Lily sat. Ay sense of foreboding that he might have felt was gone, smothered y the blanket of curiosity. The initial shock at seeing the boy was over now, and his eyes sought him, flitting from face to face until he found him, sitting beside the youngest of the Weasley's. He watched the boy, who had his back to him and eventually, Harry looked round. All in one moment, Severus saw not the boy, but James Potter staring back at him, he ignored the bright green eyes that greeted him, he only saw the dark, messy hair and thin face that belonged to James, and the snide remarks and humiliation that seemed to follow wherever James went. In that moment, Snape forgot Lily and her kind nature. He only remembered the man, James Potter, the one Lily had loved, not Severus Snape.

He had ruined her, Snape thought savagely, this offspring of James's, staring back at him. Snape stared right back, seeing only the pigheaded, arrogant toe rag that was James Potter. Seething, he turned away from the exact copy of Lily's eyes that looked curiously at him. He would never properly see those eyes; never fully appreciate how extraordinarily they looked like hers until the day he died.


End file.
